


In the Mire

by deathwailart



Series: Rhiannon Amell [11]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Morrigan and Rhiannon find another way to perform the Dark Ritual together, using their magic to join together one last time before the final battle so that, hopefully, no more Wardens will lose their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Mire

She is waiting when Rhiannon returns to her rooms, when all she wants is to curl up in bed, pull the covers over her head and forget about the world outside. She doesn't want to see a single soul, not even her faithful mabari, unable to look Alistair in the eye as they split up in the hallway without a word. It was always a comfort to her that they survived everything else that had been thrown at them, investing all the coin that they could in better weapons and arms, plucking herbs along the road to supplement potions and poultices bought with those of their own. It's hard to plan for even the short-term future when every battle might be the last and somehow never having had coin of her own before – why would coin matter to an apprentice in the Circle? – it makes her hold onto it because there's always that fear of spending it wrongly. Always supplies and what's needed, every corpse looted, every chest and crate opened, almost every job undertaken. She doesn't feel ashamed of asking a reward anymore because good intentions and warm words don't buy what they all need to keep them alive as they see this to the end.  
  
Now she knows they're going to die.  
  
Alistair heads to his own room here and Rhiannon should do as Riordan said but she's frozen outside her door across from his. She's not stupid. She's lived in a place where she was surrounded by swords and armour and she never believed it was about keeping her safe, not when she was a crying little girl screaming for her mother until she realised that her tears meant nothing to the people taking her away. Death was a part of life in the Circle, a whispered part; a friend who was in bed one night but gone the next morning but not as a Tranquil, an escape attempt that ended badly, a quiet gathering and a few words when someone took their own life rather than remain. Nothing comes without a sacrifice and though she didn't know all the history of the Grey Wardens or the intricacies prior to the Joining, she read in the Circle, read about the history because it feels like hers too. Magic and the Blight are so hopelessly intertwined, some sort of sin she carries just because of who she is and what she can do, having to suffer because of what the wicked men of Tevinter did. Supposedly. Sometimes she's not sure what she believes in truth and she's never understood the faith so many have in the Maker when he turns his back on them time and time again. Or how Andraste fought for freedom and nothing has apparently changed: mages locked in towers, the elves scattered to the winds in their clans or treated so poorly in the Alienages. Maybe she was naive but she hoped, Andraste save her she hoped they'd all see it through. She's not about to stop because even when they fought ogres and dragons they all still survived. Stiff and sore even with the potions and Wynne's healing magic, their armour in need of repairs or replacement sooner rather than later but they always made it through and joked about it. How many times had she given Alistair a shove at a river with a grin as he yelped and she ran, shouting over her shoulder that he smelt like dragon slobber? How many times had she and Zevran catalogued all the little sore spots, wounds visible and otherwise when they'd been alone together in her tent?  
  
And now to defeat the Blight for good, one of them isn't coming back. There's something about Riordan that makes her want more time; he's charming and warm, reminds her of Duncan and the road to Ostagar and that makes it hurt all the more. He's someone she could question for days and hours, a seasoned Grey Warden, close to Duncan and she wishes they'd met him sooner on the road. She's spent so long fumbling along with only her knowledge from books, a few chats with Duncan and whatever Alistair volunteered to inform her about the Wardens. Watching Riordan's face, the flicker of resignation before the mentor's mask covered it only moments ago is a reminder that it wasn't meant to be this way. Ishal was Duncan's way of keeping the two youngest safe, she knows that, to keep them as safe as they could be to fight another day but it was never meant to be just them. Someone else, preferably Duncan himself, was meant to survive and lead them, not Rhiannon who always just hopes she's done her best at it. Rhiannon's world was the Circle for so long and everything was based on books, old and out of date, a few words of the outside world through visitors from other Circles and a few friendlier Templars. She was lucky really, Irving's star pupil allowing her to hear much more than others but it's not the same. Duncan was always so patient with her on the journey to Ostagar as she asked question after question and marvelled at feeling the wind in her hair, being able to walk through forests and to stand in the rain until she was soaked, head tipped back, eyes closed, delighting in it.  
  
She forces herself to cross the narrow hall to her room, to try to get some sleep although she has no idea _how_ when her mind and stomach are churning, if it's even possible. Her dreams have been getting worse again and she's been sleeping alone more than usual.  
  
"Do not be alarmed. It is only I."  
  
What follows after such innocuous words is a plan that chills her to the bone, that prompts a long discussion about how Morrigan knew all this (how long has Morrigan known, how long have they marched and fought and enjoyed one another's company with Morrigan knowing all the while that Rhiannon is going to lose her life to this cause?) and what can be done. There's a moment where she considers trying to convince Alistair – Alistair who shares an intense mutual loathing, or Riordan should it come to that and oh Maker how selfish can she be, wanting to convince someone to father a child to save a life when in four other Blights someone has at last stepped up to take the final blow? – to do this somehow before Morrigan clears her throat. As she listens she wonders why she's considering it. After all, she was told 'in death, sacrifice' and Riordan is preparing to do the same just as every Warden at Ostagar, just like Duncan, just like Alistair. It's selfish to want to live. Cowardly. But she's clawed and scraped so long to survive and this isn't how she thought it would go. Oh she'd read about Garahel and how he had vanquished Andoral by delivering the killing blow but she hadn't pictured it to be so literal. She'd never seen a dragon outside the pages of her books before. She certainly hadn't slain them until later, when she'd slain drakes and dragonlings, even high dragons. Even whatever Flemeth was. Staggering back from the thunderclap of great leathery wings, the searing heat of flames hotter than even a mage can summon, sharp teeth that puncture through armour just as easily as flesh, a long tail to swat you feet from the battle as though you were no more than a fly; dragons she's fought and sometimes she's only known the battle to be over later when Wynne has laid her hands on her with healing magic and instructed her to avoid combat and to keep drinking potions and applying poultices. After her nightmares of the Archdemon and the moment in the Deep Roads when she'd peered over a crumbling ledge and stared in abject horror at the marching army before the dragon had swooped over her head, she'd assumed it had been the last desperate moment of adrenaline that had allowed the beast to be slain. That Garahel had been near death himself and that he'd died, summoning the last of his strength to deliver the killing blow. Now she knows that even should she be standing fresh as a daisy, the thrum of a lyrium potion giving her all the mana she needs that should she deliver that last blow then she'll be dead. She'll be gone. Not a single thing will remain of Rhiannon Amell (or Alistair Theirin or Riordan) but memories and material objects.  
  
"I would propose that you and I complete this ritual."  
  
She registers Morrigan's words but they seem so very far away even as she tries to drag herself out of her thoughts that buzz around her head like angry hornets. Morrigan pauses after that, still with the fire to her back causing Rhiannon's eyes to swim when she tries to focus on her. The fire is too bright compared to Morrigan's dark clothes and her hair and the feathers on her robes dance between black and blue and green. She looks away, rubbing at her eyes and no doubt smearing the remains of the kohl and plum eye shadow she'd applied that morning as she always did. A little touch of vanity, a different sort of armour. Her head aches as if someone is trying to saw it in half and she clenches her hands in her lap, not looking at Morrigan or the fire or her fingers smudged black and purple, like bruises. She wants it to be over and equally she wants to run but she knows perhaps better than most that there's no outrunning this; how many times has she read the histories of the Blights that have ravaged Thedas? How many sermons did the members of the Chantry in the Circle and the Templars like to give their charges, reminding them that this is their sin, the stain those with magic left on the world for others to suffer through? Her stomach lurches, a sour taste in her mouth and she's too hot and too cold all at once, the room too small and she can't breathe.  
  
Morrigan's hand is cool when it touches hers, a rustle of fabric and feathers as she whispers to _breathe_. It's enough to let her swallow, to drop her head to her chest and inhale slowly and deeply, counting to three each time she breathes in, then holds, then exhales. It isn't until the walls stop closing in that she realises Morrigan has urged her to sit in one of the chairs – even sitting she can feel her legs shaking, probably unable to hold her up any longer – and is crouching at her side, concern pinching her features. Rhiannon tries to smile but her face feels too tight and it probably comes out as a grimace but it's enough for Morrigan who stands and drags over the other seat so they're closer.  
  
"How would such a thing work?" She asks finally once her mind is no longer racing a mile a minute and her stomach has stopped its anxious churning. Oh Andraste she's so tired. The nightmares are getting worse, the days longer, the fights harder and on top of all that she's had the stress of the Landsmeet to deal with not so long ago. But she has to put that from her mind to focus on the matter at hand. Even if the matter is apparently how she's going to save her skin but then it's always been about that. Being selfish isn't always a terrible thing and if she does this then she gets to live, Alistair gets to live (and Ferelden will _finally_ stabilise, Anora and him wed with Anora being an actual ruler and Alistair perhaps learning something of it but being the appeasing blood of Calenhad that Eamon wouldn't shut up about) and Riordan gets to live too. They need every Warden to rebuild after Ostagar and even if Riordan says he's close to his Calling too then she can still have the time to learn all that she can from him without an active Blight breathing down their necks.  
  
"Tis as I said already," Morrigan begins, uneasy, Rhiannon can tell after a year together. "This child will bear the Taint and the Old God will be drawn to it in much the same way that it would be drawn to the nearest creature with the Taint were anyone other than a Grey Warden to slay it. But as it has been slain and is no longer in the body – for that is what was corrupted, the body of this Old God – then the Darkspawn corruption will not be present."  
  
"Is it safe?" Rhiannon asks and it feels like a stupid question but Rhiannon remembers watching Daveth collapse to the ground as he screamed, remembers the agony she felt, remembers every single person she's watched suffering from some stage of the corruption. The thought of that happening to anyone is chilling enough but this is Morrigan. Morrigan who was friend then sister then lover and it sounds too terrible for a moment should something go wrong.  
  
"There is always a risk, a catch," Morrigan replies and it's so her that it makes Rhiannon roll her eyes and smile despite the situation. It makes Morrigan laugh though so it's a win and the pressure in her skull eases slightly. "The risk is as great as it is for any of us. Bearing a child is not without risk, fighting an Archdemon and taking the final blow is not without risk. Look at all you have accomplished so far – how many risks did you take then, hmm? In gaining your treaties in times when you went above and beyond."  
  
"That was about me, this is you. Morrigan I still have nightmares about the night at Ostagar when I came back from the Wilds and underwent the Joining. I hadn't felt pain like that. Andraste's blood I've felt pain since, real pain, I was still a girl just out of the tower then and I still remember it." In for a bit, in for a sovereign, she might as well get it all out.  
  
"I'll hardly be partaking of the Joining." Morrigan raises a hand and Rhiannon bites her tongue and sits. "The child will be free of the Taint, you must trust me on this, and it will carry the soul of an Old God."  
  
Rhiannon sighs, rubbing at the makeup on her fingers, wetting her bottom lip before she speaks again. "You're painting a very big target on your back."  
  
The words hang in the air and she watches Morrigan. The other woman purses her lips and she reminds Rhiannon of a cat with the way she brushes dust from her robes and settles herself again, raising her chin but there's a flicker in those gold eyes that Rhiannon doesn't know, probably won't know. Rhiannon is a mage free of the tower but she's a Grey Warden and before that she was a Circle mage. She was surrounded by Templars but she never ran from them unless it was scurrying away from them and into her bed at night when she'd been out after hours. She might not have had a mother but she didn't have Flemeth either and all the stories Morrigan or others have told of the legends of Flemeth. No one wanted to steal her skin and wear it as their own. Rhiannon is hunted by Darkspawn and was hunted by Loghain's men. Morrigan has been hunted her entire life.  
  
"I am prepared for that." It's all Morrigan says, perhaps all that needs to be said and the matter is dropped.  
  
"I still don't know how this is going to work."  
  
"I have explained it."  
  
"I was actually meaning more the physical," Rhiannon says, unable to keep the dry note out of her voice and it makes Morrigan laugh, settling her somewhat.  
  
"Well you _do_ possess certain...items that can mimic such a thing but it needn't be involved, you and I will be entirely sufficient."  
  
"Oh, just sufficient is it?"  
  
"You spend entirely too much time with your crow," Morrigan lifts a brow, daring Rhiannon to disagree but there's only warmth in her voice, a warmth Rhiannon is the only one to hear on a regular basis. Then she pauses, bites her lip and can't quite meet Rhiannon's eyes. "You know what I mean. And I know you have been studying the Taint ever since you came upon the research Avernus carried out."  
  
As ever, Rhiannon squirms because there are times when she's not sure if she's done the right thing and Wynne's words of just one slip repeat in a horrible never-ending loop in her head. "It's powerful. What he did was abhorrent but I can't deny that using the Taint for more than just sensing the Darkspawn is useful. More than useful." Even blood magic is allowed to defeat the Blight. Morrigan knows about _that_ blood magic too, the stupid deal Rhiannon made at Redcliffe that cost Isolde her life and is likely to come back to bite her in the future but she can't deny it – the blood magic works even if she feels drained at the end of it. Using the Taint in her blood makes sense. She has to defeat the Blight and that's all there is to it. "I was looking into how it could preserve life, not the way Avernus did it but if we didn't die so young or if the risk at the Joining could be lessened..." She trails off because those are thoughts for another day, another life should she live to see it.  
  
"Through that knowledge, my own knowledge of the ritual and our magic then it can be done." Morrigan sounds confident enough and Rhiannon trusts her with this and with her own decisions but it still seems so farfetched she wants to pinch herself to make sure she's not dreaming.  
  
"What of the child?" She asks because that's something else they haven't really discussed beyond the obvious.  
  
"No harm will come to the child," Morrigan replies with an abrupt fierceness that takes Rhiannon by surprise though really, it shouldn't. Her face softens then as she looks away from Rhiannon. "It will have the soul of an Old God but there is no Taint, there will be nothing dark or twisted or corrupt or whatever awful thing you might imagine."  
  
"It's just...this is going to be my only child Morrigan." She didn't really have plans for a child in the Circle. She was too young and she knew, just as everyone else did, what happened to babies born to them and she knows plentiful spells and poultices to prevent such things but it was still an option, a chance. Now, should she ever want a child, it's virtually impossible. Maybe she never would have wanted a child but it was still a possibility, just like growing old was; she won't ever regret becoming a Grey Warden, she'll never stop being proud to be one but she knows that she'll always hear a little voice whispering a hundred thousand 'what ifs' in her ear. "I don't know if I want or need to know that he or she is going to be fine. More than fine but you know what I mean."  
  
"I do," Morrigan replies, reaching out to take Rhiannon's hands, the same calluses from using a stave that Rhiannon has. "You cannot be a part of raising this child but they will be safe. They will be loved. They will be ready for the world."  
  
It's really all the guarantee Morrigan can give her right now when they haven't even done anything beyond talking but it helps to make up her mind and before she really knows it she's nodding and getting to her feet.  
  
"I need to talk to Zevran," she says at last because that's always been the deal with them since they really talked about it when Rhiannon couldn't stop herself from being drawn to Morrigan and confessed that she's never been able to be with just one person. Zevran had laughed and smiled by the fire where they'd been sharing watch duties and he'd told her the same thing and even when Sten and Leliana relieved them they'd kept talking in the tent, tentatively negotiating rules. Honesty has always been the biggest one, preferably before but always at some point.  
  
"I understand," Morrigan replies because she does, because Rhiannon and Zevran aren't always a package deal in every context but it's very much Rhiannon _and_ Zevran, open and honest and frank with one another. Rhiannon's been the same with Morrigan too and Morrigan with her, no designs upon the freedoms they've both wanted and clawed for but it's the confessions that Morrigan had never intended to care, to find a friend and sister and lover, that she's willing to go through with all this to save Rhiannon's life. How long has Morrigan known, she wonders? How long have they stolen moments with Morrigan knowing that Rhiannon will lose her life to achieve victory. Rhiannon's almost at the door when she speaks again, a soft note of pain in her voice. "But...do not take too long. Time is precious now more than it ever was."  
  
Rhiannon has to swallow hard around the lump in her throat as she takes her leave.

* * *

  
  
"Zev?" She peers round the door – Redcliffe is large enough (she doesn't want to think about it, tries not to think about Isolde, about the deal she made with a demon, how _stupid_ she was) that they all have separate rooms – to find him stretched out on the bed, a book of some description in one hand.  
  
"Rhiannon, the meeting with Riordan is over?" He drops the book and sits up, patting the bed and she hesitates for a moment before joining him, tucking her head against his shoulder even if she has to lean at an awkward angle to do so. "What troubles you?" Again she hesitates and bites her lip, swallowing hard and that's when the tears come. She's been so good at holding them back no matter what because crying about things when she's supposed to be the leader won't help and she's so lost that it takes her a while to realise Zevran is holding her and stroking her hair. There's a stream of Antiva she doesn't understand murmured into her ear as she cries herself out, tangling her fingers in Zevran's tunic before she sniffles and pulls away to wipe her face with her hands, tossing her hair over her shoulders.  
  
As honest as she is with Zevran, there are things she doesn't discuss with him because Alistair always seems to think it's so important to have their Warden discussions away from everyone else although she has no idea how Anora knew about the possible fatality of the Joining. Except this is life and death. This is _her_ life and Zevran losing someone else and that was one of the very arguments Morrigan posed to her in their discussion. Zevran has lost so many people he loves and she can't be another one, not if she can help it. She loves him, loves his stupid snorty laugh (his real laugh, not the quiet chuckles that sound practiced or that follow the lewd jokes, the proper one when someone trips or says something funny or when she pulls the face he's termed her sucking-a-lemon face) and his sense of humour, the fact that they can be open and honest with one another. Zevran's seen so much death, so much ugliness and she wants to be able to give him nothing but joy and to be able to do something stupid like in the terrible romance novels they quote at one another. She wants to go to Antiva with him and to let it soak into her skin as he leads her through all the places he's been, the scent of a leather tannery. He gave her a ring and it meant something. He met her trying to kill her or looking for his own death in trying when he lost someone he loved to betrayal and so she takes a breath and tries to organise her thoughts.  
  
"What I say to you now, it _cannot_ leave this room. Riordan can't know and Alistair...Alistair especially can't know." _I'm saving their lives as well as mine_ , she tells herself as she folds her legs under her and reaches for Zevran's hands, twining their fingers together as she continues. She can only imagine what Alistair would say anyway because they've argued about Morrigan before when she finally snapped and told him if he couldn't say anything civil about Morrigan then he could keep it to himself and then again when he realised that yes, Rhiannon and Morrigan were in fact involved. This stays between the three who need to know, the three who are involved in one way or another. "One of us has to kill the Archdemon, obviously."  
  
"Obviously, of course." Zevran has one brow raised, regarding her with a curious look but he's always there to listen to her talking things out, sometimes offering advice or asking questions as she goes or just sitting and listening and waiting for her to be done.  
  
"Taking the final blow...Riordan says that as the oldest he's going to do it."  
  
"I'm sensing there is a but."  
  
" _But_ nothing is certain, we've all seen that." She pauses, biting her lip and feeling her previous nausea return.  "Whoever kills the Archdemon, dies."  
  
It sounds simple. It _is_ simple. It's a cut and dried fact that she could have read in a book if the Wardens revealed so much and didn't have to keep so many secrets. She's read about it in the past – everyone knows the story of Garahel, hero of the Fourth Blight, the battle at Ayesleigh – but now she finally understands and she watches Zevran like a hawk. Zevran's better at her at giving nothing away because he was trained to do it but she catches the moment his features harden, when he lets go of her hands for just a second as the shock hits him. She closes her eyes to will the tears away and moves to cup his face with one hand, her thumb tracing the tattoos on his cheek.  
  
"You mean to say that all our time together may be coming to an end? So cruel of this Archdemon – and rude. He does not write and now he makes you tell me that your life – or dear Alistair's – may be ended."  
  
"Well he's certainly never cared for us at all; all those lost hours that could have been better spent and not with me tossing and turning or keeping you awake with my nightmares."  
  
"Hush, I plan to tell him off myself and then some, if I am to be by your side for this."  
  
For a moment she's taken aback because they don't even have a plan beyond Riordan saying he'll take the final blow and here is Zevran, pledging to be by her side battling the most abhorrent creature she can imagine. "If that's where you wish to be then I'd gladly have you with me."  
  
"I wish to be at your side." He raises her hand, bringing it to his lips. "Always." Despite herself, she flushes and she could pretend that this was her only worry but as ever, he sees through her. "There is more to this else you would not be in tears – not that you are uncaring but you know the way of death and battle."  
  
"Whoever dies, dies completely." It's a terrible explanation that she blurts out at first before she backtracks. "I mean obviously they die but Wardens are...different. When the Archdemon is slain, the soul escapes if anyone but a Grey Warden kills it. Unless you somehow destroyed every Darkspawn. The soul goes into one of them and it twists and contorts – well it becomes the next vessel if you will. But when a Grey Warden kills the Archdemon then because of our Taint, both souls are destroyed."  
  
Zevran is quiet but he's squeezing her hand as she takes a short breath. "Both souls are destroyed," he echoes and all she can do is nod.  
  
"Riordan said as the eldest he would make the first attempt but after Ostagar..."  
  
"I understand."  
  
It breaks her heart to hear Zevran sound so hollow and yet accepting. She wouldn't presume to say she knows his pain because she can't, she can only know it through him: his mother, a life without pain that was of his choosing, Rinna and now, potentially, her too.  
  
"Is that why you were gone so long?" He asks finally as she moves to sit more comfortably, wriggling her numb toes.  
  
"Yes and no. I went back to the room they gave me, I don't know, Zev I could barely walk across the hall it felt like I'd left my body, like I was watching a stranger but Morrigan was there. I don't fully know how beyond saying it's Morrigan but she knew. She knew and she offered me a loophole."  
  
"What sort of a loophole?"  
  
"A magical one. A ritual." She forces herself to keep her voice steady because she doesn't know how far into the full explanation she wants to get because she has no idea how she feels about it or how she's supposed to feel but she trusts Morrigan, somewhere deep in her gut and her instincts aren't wrong. They told her to free Sten, to welcome Leliana to travel with them, to allow Zevran to join their party and all too often it's when she overthinks that she lets her doubt creep in and then she makes mistakes. With Isolde. With that damn demon. "What we do will lure the Archdemon's soul and bind it and whoever takes that killing blow gets to live. "  
  
"Is this something she read in those books you procured for her?"  
  
"I don't know, I don't even know if she'd tell me – it might have been something Flemeth knew." Zevran was there after all for the moment Flemeth changed her shape and stood before them as a high dragon, all scales and claws and fiery breath.  
  
"I taught you that you were allowed to be selfish and that it is good to be selfish, didn't I?"  
  
"You did," she admits and lets Zevran pull her to recline next to him on the bed.  
  
"It is no bad thing to wish to live to tell the tale. No one would think less of you and if they did, so what? They do not know you. They did not fight this fight and raise an army from nothing. Heroes die, yes but some heroes live another day. But this is not my choice to make – I do not wish to influence you, this is your path Rhiannon, your choice." It's always what matters with them – they can make choices they couldn't before, Zevran free of the Crows and her free of the Circle, free to enjoy life and to seek pleasure and happiness wherever they can find it and in truth, it's why she's fallen more and more in love with him.  
  
She presses her face against his neck, breathing deeply and there's a calm in her that wasn't there before, the way there so often is whenever she discusses her problems with Zevran. It's her choice and she trusts Morrigan with her life, with her own life, with the life they're going to make and something settles in her gut as she sits up, wiping at her face and taking another breath to compose herself.  
  
"Right." She says. Then she leans over to kiss him, pushing him back against the pillows but she has to break it to smile and cry again. "I love you," she says because she doesn't get to say it enough.  
  
"And I love you," he replies, cupping her cheeks.  
  
"Thank you, I just...I needed to tell someone else. I needed to just get it out of my head."  
  
"I know," he smiles, wiping away her tears and she lets him sit up, "Do not be so sad – enjoy life, it is too short for us to cry. Whatever it is you do tonight with your bewitching lady of the wilds, you are allowed to enjoy it; you are saving lives."  
  
She should tell him, she thinks, or a little part of her does but the fewer who know the whole story, the better. "Well it'll be part of the story only three of us get to know."  
  
"I'm sure you'll give me all the gory details – if you dance naked in the moonlight though, I would like to watch, it may be the last chance I have to see mages doing so."  
  
She snorts and shoves him. "I'll be back. Late. Or you could wait in my room? You know where it is and well Morrigan's room is further from everyone else, I don't want people to come running." After all she has no idea exactly what's involved in this ritual and for all she knows it could be loud – Morrigan might have complained once about Rhiannon shrieking like a genlock but she's hardly quiet herself.  
  
"I will await you there then."  
  
There's a basin of water and a cloth in the room so she washes her face and hands, considering applying more eyeliner at least because it always helps her to feel brave and prepared but she decides it's silly and simply smoothes her robes and allows Zevran to comb the tangles out of her hair, his fingers more gentle than hers. He kisses the back of her neck, reassuring her still and she wonders why she was so lucky to find someone like him who loves as freely as he does, who wants her to be happy. Who accepts her as she is and doesn't judge. Even all the years of Crow conditioning and training to hide those tender places and his kindness; afraid, still, the Crows had trained him well indeed and perhaps even a lifetime wouldn't erase the marks they had left on him but it was always offered to her. Perhaps with a hesitation but the earring hung around her neck on a chain, warm against her skin and she gave him all that she could. Zevran understood her and loved her, same as Morrigan and she took solace in that as she let him lead her to the door. A passing maid glances at them and Zevran laughs quietly, stretching up to whisper in her ear, a teasing remark about the separate rooms and sneaking around and she laughs louder than the situation calls for but the nervous butterflies are returning. They stop outside Morrigan's door and she leans down to kiss him in the middle of the hall because she and Zevran have never cared for the opinion of others on their relationship be it stolen moments in the shadows or holding hands and kisses in public.  
  
"I love you," he tells her, warm and serious, golden eyes glittering.  
  
"I love you too," she replies, sharing one last kiss before he lets go of her hand and she waits outside Morrigan's door. "You'll be there? After?"  
  
"Of course dear Warden."

* * *

  
  
"Rhiannon," Morrigan greets when Rhiannon finally knocks and slips inside her room, fire burning low. Morrigan has pulled the tie from her hair so it falls to her shoulders, a rare sight that Rhiannon usually only sees when she's brushing it in the morning to tie out of the way. She reaches out, running her fingers through it, soft and silky smooth between her fingers and Morrigan closes the gap between them to kiss her, the gentle press of full lips that Rhiannon deepens, backing Morrigan towards the bed as their fingers begin to find the fastenings on robes. Rhiannon knows where to tug so that the knots on Morrigan's slide loose, allowing her to push the top half down until they break apart because Rhiannon's robes require her to turn around to remove them. "You had to wear this?" Morrigan mutters in complaint and Rhiannon laughs, reaching behind to help out.  
  
"Remember the first time I tried to untie the top half of your robes? I got myself tied into it," Rhiannon counters, craning her neck to smirk at Morrigan. "Oh and that time we forgot to remove your pauldron and I got feathers up my nose?"  
  
Morrigan laughs quietly, peeling Rhiannon out of the upper portion of her robes, leaving her clad only in leggings and boots but before she can turn, Morrigan presses herself to Rhiannon's back, sweeping her hair over one shoulder, Morrigan's breasts flush to her back as she slowly glides her hands up and over Rhiannon's ribs then up further to cup her breasts, thumbs rubbing circles around her nipples until Rhiannon moans, arching into the touch. Morrigan turns her with a gentle hand upon her shoulder and Rhiannon could laugh – how silly they look, the upper half of their robes at their feet, Morrigan entirely naked from the waist up and Rhiannon in smallclothes and leggings, Morrigan in her skirt and both still wearing their boots. By unspoken agreement they go to the edge of the bed and sit to unlace their boots and kick them off, Rhiannon reaching up to undo her smallclothes as well before she peels her leggings down and off then before Morrigan can do anything else, she pushes her to lie back, sliding her skirt down to the floor then tracing a single finger over Morrigan's mound. Morrigan arches up, hissing out a breath but before Rhiannon can do more she sits up and reaches for her hand.  
  
"As much as I would look forward to what I sense you are planning, may I remind you that there is more to this than simple pleasure," Morrigan instructs and Rhiannon nods, moving to sit in the centre of the bed as Morrigan moves to grab her pack, returning to sit facing Rhiannon with the pack between them. "I took the liberty of procuring a few items we would need from your room," Morrigan explains as she reaches into the bag to remove blue vials full of lyrium. "Most of these I made myself – you had lyrium dust, your supply for the battle to come remains mostly untouched." Rhiannon nods, taking the vials from Morrigan and arranging them in a neat row. There are a few extra things – dried herbs Rhiannon hasn't seen before but she's willing to bet they're from the Wilds, a dagger, a bowl of salt and another bowl of what might be ashes and, somewhat bizarrely, eggs. Or what Rhiannon assumes are eggs until she picks one up and it's heavy, solid and smooth in her palm. She raises an eyebrow, rolling it between her hands under Morrigan's gaze as the other woman pulls out chalk. "We'll need to move the bed," she says and Rhiannon nods, making sure the blankets are nestled around their supplies for the moment so nothing rolls off and falls to the floor. It's simple enough to move the bed – they're both strong and they might be mages but manual labour isn't a foreign concept to them though the bed is heavy and protests as they haul then push it away from the stone wall. Hopefully no one's going to come investigate the loud scrape of wood on stone once the bed is moved and Rhiannon steps away to double-check that she locked the door behind her. It's tempting to have Morrigan cast some sort of glyph just in case but there's going to be enough magic in this room soon, best not to add more.  
  
"Is that enough space?" She asks as she paces a circle around the bed, enough room to comfortably walk behind it and it's when her arm brushes cold stone that she remembers how naked she is and that they probably could have done a lot more preparation first.  
  
"It will suffice," Morrigan replies and she snaps the chalk in half, handing one half to Rhiannon. "A glyph of warding to be sketched upon the floor at the four corners of the bed outside the circle I will draw – I will close the circle when we are ready." Rhiannon nods to show she understands and moves to the first corner, carefully drawing the glyph. She never favoured creation magic in the Circle, always preferring the primal spells but she knows these glyphs and many more from reading about them; they learned about all magic and she herself devoured every book and every lesson she could so she knows them even if she prefers not to use them in battle. She traces the shapes carefully, moving from corner to corner as Morrigan draws a wide, even circle until she's done and stepping inside through the gap Morrigan closes behind them both.  
  
"So we've kept everything out?" Rhiannon asks and Morrigan nods. "Should we undress the rest of the way?"  
  
"Yes, there's no more reason to leave the bed after this."  
  
So they wriggle out of their smallclothes, neither of them ever embarrassed about being in a state of undress around the other and Morrigan only leaves the bed once to carefully pour the black powder over the white chalk circle she's drawn, setting the bowl under the bed when she's done. Next she places two of the 'eggs' in Rhiannon's hands and has her lay them north and east as she places them south and west before they arranged the dried herbs in small bundles of spindleweed, elfroot and a few others she doesn't know beyond recognising them as she's walked past them. Morrigan reaches into her bag again – Rhiannon thought she had seen it all – and produces lifestones and spirit shards that she arranges in a pattern before carefully placing the bag outside their circle, sitting across from Rhiannon the bed.  
  
"Ready?" Rhiannon asks even if that's probably meant to be Morrigan's line, all too aware of her heart thumping wildly, her mouth suddenly dry.  
  
"Almost. You will need to focus within yourself during the act, to think of it as channeling the energy you feel out of yourself and into me. You must place your hands," she reaches out, takes Rhiannon by both hands and guides her forward so her palms lay flat upon her belly, "yes, just like this. I will focus on pulling the mana from you and directing it within myself. If you are able to use the talents you learned from that concoction Avernus came up with then the Taint will be present in the air and in your blood."  
  
Rhiannon is no stranger to what is required for blood magic and cuts a clean slice through her arm with barely a wince, drawing power from what runs through her blood as she wipes the dagger clean on a corner of the bedding. "Don't touch the wound. I don't want you to risk more contact with the Taint than you need to."  
  
"I understand," Morrigan replies and takes up the knife herself, coating it in flames to cleanse it then Rhiannon cools it with ice before Morrigan finally cuts open her arm in a similar fashion. Rhiannon can only imagine what Wynne would say. Wynne who has discussed Morrigan as if she were the worst sort of maleficar yet one who died and allowed a spirit within herself, who has seen Rhiannon casting blood magic and has never been so awful to her as she is about Morrigan. They divide the vials of lyrium between them and down them at the same time and suddenly Rhiannon feels _alive_ , vibrant and energised, able to see and hear with perfect clarity.  
  
_We do whatever is necessary to end a Blight,_ Rhiannon tells herself as she looks at the blood running down their arms before she starts following Morrigan's chant, the words old and heavy, strange foreign sounds to wrap her tongue around. Soon they're chanting together, their voices strong and confident and Rhiannon would swear that the room is buzzing and humming the way all the world did when she was in the Deep Roads.  
  
She doesn't examine that further, in fact there isn't time to examine anything because she is pushed to lie flat on her back, knees bent and pressed towards her chest, thighs spread wide and she feels exposed in a way she hasn't before, the lyrium practically singing in her veins; she's never used lyrium outside of battle apart from when she was in the Deep Roads and didn't have the luxury of resting before the next wave of Darkspawn found her and she feels giddy and elated. Her skin is too sensitive, her awareness is heightened and when Morrigan slots between her spread legs she cries out in surprise, hands automatically moving to her waist to support her. It's probably the lyrium but the other woman looks like she's glowing and like something from an old story and she recalls Ostagar and the Ash Warrior, the tale of Luthias the Dwarfson and Morrighan'nan. Then Morrigan settles her weight more heavily so that Rhiannon's palms are flat on her belly and pressed between both their bodies before she lowers herself that last inch and her clit drags against Rhiannon's and she moans from deep in her chest, feeling Morrigan's thighs against her backside and if she lifts her head enough she can see that Morrigan's knees are bent, shins pressed to the bed to support her weight, her elbows bent with her hands planted on either side of Rhiannon's head. If this were any other time then she'd be unable to hold still – it's new, she's never done this with anyone before and being pressed against Morrigan like this has her heart racing – but she knows they have one chance to do this. Morrigan opens her mouth to speak but a moan escapes her too and she bites her lip, composing herself and lifting up – Rhiannon can see the strain in her arms – as she looks into Rhiannon's eyes and tries again.  
  
"Remember," Morrigan gasps, "Focus on-" she stops when Rhiannon leans up awkwardly to kiss her.  
  
"I know what to do," she promises.  
  
"Then let us enjoy this." Morrigan's voice drops to the purr Rhiannon knows so well, the one that usually has her grinning and blushing when they're out and about with others or in camp.  
  
It's all the warning Rhiannon gets before Morrigan lowers herself, thrusting tentatively and it's almost too much – her nerves are on fire from the newness of this sort of sensation, Morrigan's cunt sliding wetly against hers enough to curl her toes. In the tower she could never do this with a girl because they didn't have a bed to stretch out in and honestly she didn't really know anything about this until right now because she and Morrigan have never done this together either. She closes her eyes even though she wants to watch every moment because she can't trust herself. She'll want to stroke Morrigan's hair from her face, arch up and kiss her, slide a hand further down between their bodies or roll them over, change the position. But she can't. She has to close her eyes and reach out with her senses, her focus within herself and her magic and mana supplemented by lyrium and the items around them. She's aware of Morrigan's own magic and how she's draining Rhiannon's mana, not the way enemy mages pull it from her in battle, this is slower, steadier, rising and falling in time with the press of her hips and the slide of her folds against Rhiannon's. Magic for her has always been visual so she concentrates on imagining a warm white light in her palms where they're pressed to Morrigan's belly, Morrigan's own magic brighter, tinged with violet like lightning and the darker note of grey for the Taint. Even though spirit magic has never been her calling – rather, she shuts them out, can't bring herself to trust spirits at all and all her experiences on this road, despite Wynne being present, hasn't done anything to engender her trust – she still feels as though this calls upon them, or as if she's channeling them for better or worse. It's the same sensation she gets when the Veil is thin about her and when she risks opening her eyes, Morrigan looks as though she's glowing. There's a cracking sound and when she cranes her neck to look for it she's sure the rocks have split open but that can't be happening the same way the room can't be singing to her.  
  
Heat coils low in her belly, spreading up her spine and she can't help pressing hard against Morrigan who is chanting again and the circle around the bed glows, the fire burning in the hearth sparking and climbing higher and higher and even with her eyes tight shut there's blinding light right as she comes. She doesn't recognise her own voice and time seems to stretch, her limbs too light and she feels as though she's floating.  
  
When she comes back to herself there's dried blood sticky and crusting down her arm and sweat coating her skin and she starts shivering, curling closer to where Morrigan lies next to her, chest heaving as she tries to get her breath back. The room seems normal again but the logs on the fire have fallen and the flames aren't as bright so she squints, pressing a hand to Morrigan's belly again, Morrigan's hands coming to cover hers. It's almost like being hungover but worse, the aftermath of the Harrowing or the Joining, an ache in the back of her skull and a strange squelching cramp deep in the pit of her stomach. She closes her eyes and swallows carefully, wondering what she should say but Morrigan sighs next to her so she bites her tongue and squeezes her hand in the darkened room.  
  
"Did it work?" She asks finally when she's tried to sit up and failed, her head swimming too much.  
  
"I believe so, yes. I suppose we cannot know for certain until it might be too late but I felt something."  
  
"I did too," Rhiannon whispers. Maybe it was the glow, the 'eggs' cracking. Her arm itches and she wants something to eat and drink, a hot bath, something for her head but she remains lying on her side next to Morrigan, listening to their breathing and to her own heartbeat, echoing like a war drum in her ears. "Is it wrong to say thank you? I know you gain something from this but even so, the risk...this ritual. You're saving my _life_ Morrigan." The tears bubble up and she's too overwhelmed to try to hide them and instead turns her face to a bare shoulder, feeling rather than hearing Morrigan's sob.  
  
"I did not meant to care for you like this. I did not mean to fall in love, such a wretched ill-timed thing." Morrigan's voice is hoarse and she sounds pained so Rhiannon sits up and gathers the other woman to her, kissing her cheeks and forehead, pushing tangled hair away from her face.  
  
"It's not a weakness," she tells her fiercely, "it's not."  
  
"I know."  
  
Two words but Rhiannon understands and swallows, pulling Morrigan into an embrace and whispering 'I love you' in her ear.  
  
Eventually they break apart to clean up and dress, packing away what they can for the moment. They scuff at the chalk and ash circle and symbols, bundle the dried herbs up and into the fire, empty vials, the dagger, lifestones and spirit shards all in Morrigan's pack and she slips into the thin sleep robes they all found in their rooms as Rhiannon forgoes boots or leggings, tugging the tunic of her robes down just enough that she'll be able to scurry into her room without looking too scandalous.  
  
"I would prefer to sleep alone," Morrigan murmurs and Rhiannon nods. "I...I know not what we should say of this."  
  
"Perhaps we don't need to right now. We still have time."  
  
Morrigan smiles, cupping her face when she kisses her. "You are right. Rest well, you will need it."  
  
"And you." Rhiannon pauses, pressing a hand to Morrigan's belly again. "Both of you."  
  
Before Rhiannon leaves, a ring of rosewood is pressed into her palm along with words a kiss, the door closing behind her though she lingers outside, getting used to being on her feet once more, examining the ring, how the colours and shapes seem to change even before she slides it on to examine it better. A link between them even if Rhiannon is not to follow her and she smiles, running a finger over it before she hurries to her room where Zevran is curled up in bed, Reaver looking up from the rug before the fire when she slips in and locks the door. Zevran's instincts and training have him waking as soon as she returns, stripping her robes and crawling into bed next to him as he runs his fingers through her hair.  
  
"I love you," she tells him, pressing her forehead to his, "I love you," she repeats because it's coming to an end and there's no way of knowing for certain if the ritual has worked and she might not get so many chances again.  
  
"I love you too," he murmurs, urging her to lie back as he draws the blankets up. "Now rest, close your eyes and dream only pleasant things, I am here. Always."

* * *

  
  
One day, so many years down the road when even the Vigil is far behind her, when she's undertaking adventures all alone there is a boy in her dreams with the watchfulness of a cat but it's Rhiannon's smile on his face, the long line of her nose.  
  
"Hello darling," she says each time he runs to her in the green-tinged Fade – she knows it better now, doesn't fear it the way she did when she was so young and untested – and she aches because this is the only time she'll hold him and her arms upon waking will feel so empty.  "What did your mother teach you today?"  
  
He smiles and laughs, flickers of flames, lightning sparks, ice crystals or swirling energy dancing in his palms as she crouches in front of him. The pride she feels in those dreams is a mother's pride and he's never revealed his name, has told her nothing but she knows, she knows deep in her bones that this is her boy and each time she finds him at night she guards him from the prowling monsters of the Fade.

**Author's Note:**

> In my headcanon, this is how the Dark Ritual goes whenever I play a female Warden and I want her to live - to each their own but I have serious issues with having to persuade (and really it borders on ordering in some cases) Alistair or Loghain to do it. And a blog post by Gaider not terribly long ago really made me want to write this after his dismissive and gross attitude about the situation. This fic is also Alistair critical (and a line or two are Wynne critical) so maybe move along. Again, none of this is passing judgement on what anyone does or feels in their game, this is purely a selfish personal endeavour.


End file.
